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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24552667">All Hell and Its Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name'>Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Show That Love's Worth Running To [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotions, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jack and the Cuckoo Clock Heart AU, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier's freaking out, Kinda, M/M, Oneshot, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sequel, Spells and Enchantments</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:36:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24552667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier's heart hasn't ticked in a while. That's... probably fine.</p><p>Until it starts ticking again-- far faster than it ever has before.</p><p> </p><p>AKA: Jaskier breaks the most important rule and falls in love</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Show That Love's Worth Running To [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>All Hell and Its Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's my AU and I get to make the rules!! .... Right?</p><p>Okay, seriously, though, the heart clock stuff all makes sense to me when I'm planning it and then I don't know how well that translates into the actual writing of it. So, well, here's hoping that any and all weirdness with the heart rules can be forgiven or understood. I'm doing my best, I promise.</p><p>This is a continuation from my previous work with this AU. I'm doing it in a series because it doesn't follow a direct plot so much as it jumps around in Jaskier's life as a cursed boy for a while. It may lead to an actual chaptered work eventually but this is just setting up some backstory for that! Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><div class="quoteText">
  <p>"<b>You spend time healing people, but you drown your wounds in the alcohol of your own tears."</b><br/>― <span class="authorOrTitle">Mathias Malzieu, </span><em>La Mécanique du cœur</em></p>
</div><div class="quoteFooter">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="quoteFooter">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="quoteFooter">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="quoteFooter">
  <p>Jaskier’s felt his heart tick too fast before. He’s not frightened enough to pretend he’s never known the tug of clock hands stretching the skin of his chest, pulling just enough to remind him of what his heart truly is. He’s lingered too long with a lady in bed, or returned a smile to a stranger too genuinely. Jaskier falls in love a little bit every now and then; his heart exists to remind him that love is nothing but a nuisance.</p>
  <p>As hands have explored his body— in some noble’s son’s bed or with some innkeeper’s wife— so, too, have the hands of his heart pressed into his being.</p>
  <p>
    <em> Remember what you were taught. Remember your rules. </em>
  </p>
  <p>It’s never enough to kill him, the way the mage had said it would, but that’s only because he runs before it has the chance. Before he can fall too deeply into the warmth and trapping confessions that pour from those dangerous enough to reach into his emotions, to stick against the curse on his skin. </p>
  <p>Never enough to kill him but always enough to sting. What is a flower without its thorns, after all? And, no matter how many times he feels it— no matter how often he’s escaped the warning, no matter how he knows to turn away before the countdown becomes lethal— it’s something that always chills him through to his bones. Like a noose tightening ever so slightly around his neck; like a weight upon his lungs, stealing his breaths one by one.</p>
  <p>More frightening than this, though, is the fact that, for the past few months, it’s failed to move at all. Not for the girls who’ve winked at him as he’s left town; not for the boys who’ve gazed at him with darkened eyes as he’s played in taverns and inns.</p>
  <p>Not for the girl with the dark hair curled around her shoulders as she traces the clock with warm fingers, sweat still sticking to Jaskier’s skin after the night they’d just had. Geralt’s out hunting something he’d deemed too dangerous for Jaskier to be near— some were-beast or other— and it was one of the rare times Jaskier had agreed to stay behind. The girl serving their wine that night had such pretty brown eyes, after all.</p>
  <p>“Midnight,” she mutters, drawing goosebumps across Jaskier’s skin as she continues to follow the path of the clock’s hands. She’s not the first woman to point out this feature, and certainly not the first to believe it some pretentious bard’s marking— a tattoo or some other detail meant to highlight his body. She brushes through the hair on his chest, smiling at the golden lines almost glowing beneath. “Or, just a little after midnight. Such an exact time. Is there a reason why you chose it?”</p>
  <p>Someone else had said something similar the last time Jaskier had been lucky enough to have a tumble in some stranger’s bed. Someone who’d straddled his hips and kissed the clock, their tongue pressed to the magic in a way Jaskier was told he never could.</p>
  <p><em> “You bards and your secrets </em> .” It had been a young farmer Jaskier had run into some months back, after a brief separation with Geralt. <em> “I suppose there’s some deep meaning behind the numbers chosen? Midnight, but not quite?” </em></p>
  <p><em> “It does sound rather poetic, doesn’t it?” </em> Jaskier had said with one of those smiles meant to disarm, to attract attention away from the clock and back to more pleasurable actions. <em> “Look, you got the rhyming down and everything </em>.”</p>
  <p>Another one of Jaskier’s thousands of witty remarks about his clock.</p>
  <p>Tonight, though, his hand covers the girl’s fingers to pull them from his heart. His words catch in his throat.</p>
  <p>It’s been months and the time hasn’t changed. Not by one minute; not by one beat.</p>
  <p>“I’m afraid I’m not thoughtful enough to have come up with a reason,” he says after a moment too long, his voice just barely reaching its favorite cocky tone. “But it’s nearly midnight here, is it not? Keep looking at me like that and I’m sure I’ll have the perfect memory to put with the time.”</p>
  <p>The girl grins— all teeth and bright eyes— and leans down to cover Jaskier with her kisses and flirty words. Jaskier, never one to leave his lover to do all the work, sits up and pulls her mouth back to his, pouring poetry from his tongue about her starry gaze and heaven-sent lips. </p>
  <p>But, in the back of his mind, every thought is dedicated to his clock.</p>
  <p>He knows himself. He knows his heart. He knows he falls in love with nearly everyone he meets— long enough for it to last a moment, never meant to be forever. Always with someone he can forget, can leave behind.</p>
  <p>But according to his heart, he’s not loved anyone in months. </p>
  <p>And this scares him more than anything else.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
  <p>“I assure you that not all monsters are only able to be killed in the hours between dusk and dawn,” Jaskier says, trailing after Geralt as they venture into yet another dark forest. Geralt’s swords gleam on his back, catching moonlight even as Jaskier shudders at the cold and wishes to be back with Roach at the camp they’d left behind. “Or is it part of your witcher code to only hunt when literally no one else can see? Really, Geralt, how do you expect me to write any ballads if I can’t see what I’m supposed to be writing about?”</p>
  <p>“I’d rather hunt before any other unfortunate travelers are harmed tonight,” Geralt says without glancing back. “Besides, I doubt you really need any more detail on nekkers.”</p>
  <p>“Well, we don’t <em> know </em>they’re nekkers, do we? It could be a group of bandits or some other unnamed beast that you and I, chum, can have the honor of discovering. If it’s particularly ugly, I vote we name it after Valdo Marx,” Jaskier says. “Or perhaps that innkeeper from the last town. What was his name? Karl? Kaden? No matter, he practically kicked us out and— oh, gods, Geralt, over there!”</p>
  <p>The nekker that springs from the ground before them is the first of many. They swarm like drowners, claws swiping for Geralt’s armor and Jaskier’s lute, the instrument held in front of him as though to repel the beasts as they hiss and scream. Jaskier stumbles back towards the trees, managing to shout directions to Geralt as the nekkers turn towards the more dangerous prey, working together in an attempt to overtake him.</p>
  <p>“Over your shoulder! To the right! There’s more coming from behind the oak tree up ahead! Careful, you— Oh, that wouldn’t have happened if you’d just listened to me!”</p>
  <p>“Fuck off,” Geralt growls, though it’s with a quick glance at the cut across his shoulder— a cut from one of the many nekkers Jaskier had tried to warn him about. “Either help or go hide with Roach.”</p>
  <p>“Rude,” Jaskier says, safely tucked behind one of the trees. “How about this? You do your fighting and I’ll take notes. You mind looking heroic, just for some inspiration? Or— yikes, that looks like it hurt.”</p>
  <p>Geralt doesn’t respond. Jaskier doesn’t entirely blame him; he also only feels a little bad for implying Geralt would have to <em> try </em>to look heroic. If anything, Jaskier knows best just how easy it is to look at Geralt and see the closest thing to a hero this world has.</p>
  <p>Geralt works his blade through the nekkers like a gardener through thorns, cutting limbs from bodies as the swarm grows bit by bit. The nekkers seem to fly at him from the dark, leaping with an agility Jaskier tucks away in the back of his mind for a lyric later— something to add to some new song about Geralt’s latest fight, comparing nekkers to something more sentimental, like falling stars or strikes of lightning. It’s tricky work trying to keep up with what Geralt does; at any moment, he could fade away under a pile of these wretched things, only the constant swing of his silver sword enough to ease Jaskier’s fear that he may not still be there.</p>
  <p>But then there are the moments where Geralt turns, his teeth bared and his hand thrust out in the sign of Aard; there are times where Geralt’s eyes flick towards Jaskier’s, as black as the night above them, dark veins reaching into his skin with all the sticky darkness of the potion he took before they came.</p>
  <p>These moments, more than anything else, remind Jaskier that his witcher— his muse and his white wolf— will be okay.</p>
  <p>Moments like this, more than monsters and the music they inspire, are what make adventures into the dark worth it. </p>
  <p>Nevertheless, Jaskier shrinks further behind his tree as Geralt finishes the last of the nekkers. In his experience, the end is never truly the end, and he won’t be caught off-guard when more dig their way out from the ground below them. </p>
  <p>This hope for preparation, though, seems only to attract the universe’s particular sense of humor. </p>
  <p>A sharp tugging on the back of his doublet is all the warning Jaskier has before he’s pulled off his feet, his back slamming against the forest ground hard enough to send sharp shudders through his spine. He stares up at leaves and branches and blurring stars; then, he sees the barbaric eyes of the nekker who’d attacked him.</p>
  <p>“Geralt!” He screams, more instinct than a decision. “Geralt, over here!”</p>
  <p>He’s lucky only that this one’s alone, and that he has the sense left to lift his arms over his face, his screams pulling from his throat as the nekker’s claws rip his sleeves and the skin beneath. He kicks and shakes his head, twisting and turning if only to make his more valuable body parts harder to reach. Still, the nekker’s claws scour across his throat; they reach ever so threateningly for his chest.</p>
  <p>When Geralt’s sword pierces through the thing’s head, the point emerging from between its eyes, it’s like something from one of Jaskier’s songs.</p>
  <p>Though, he thinks as Geralt disposes of its body with a snarl, Jaskier would prefer not to be the subject of such blood-soaked tales. He sits up and scoots back until he’s propped against a tree, catching his breath. Geralt’s sword doesn’t glimmer the way it did when they walked here, too covered in guts and mud to catch the light the way it did before. </p>
  <p>Once satisfied that the threat is gone, Geralt turns back to Jaskier.</p>
  <p>“I told you to stay back,” he says. Tactful as ever. But then he frowns, just enough that, perhaps, only Jaskier would ever notice. “Are you alright?”</p>
  <p>Jaskier breathes out a shaky sigh before answering, his hands digging into the ground beside him. Cool dirt, the brush of twigs and small weeds tickling his palms. This attack was far from the worst he’s faced in his time with Geralt but, somehow, near-death experiences never really get any simpler.</p>
  <p>“Your shoulder’s still bleeding,” he says instead of answering, shoving himself to his feet. The cuts from the nekker’s claws still sting. His arms, his shoulders. His chest. Papercut slices, nothing more than that. “Come on, then, show me. I know you won’t clean it out yourself so one of us has to be responsible.”</p>
  <p>Jaskier marches over to Geralt the way he has a thousand times before, already reaching for the wound and muttering about infections and proper care. He ignores Geralt’s grunts. He ignores the way the cut across his own chest seems to ache more than the ones on his arms or hands.</p>
  <p>But when Geralt steps out of Jaskier’s way before he can look at the wound, when he narrows his pitch-black eyes at him and deepens his frown, it’s the first time Jaskier actually pauses.</p>
  <p>“Jaskier.” A rumble of distant thunder more than a voice. “You’re hurt.”</p>
  <p>“Oh, nothing but scratches, my dear,” Jaskier says, though his cheeks warm. He presses a hand to his chest, over the place where the worst of the wounds must be, going by the burn that appears from the brief contact. He does his best not to wince, though his smile does falter enough for Geralt’s eyes to narrow. “I appreciate the concern but it can wait until we get back to the camp. The worst scrape is on my chest, and it’s probably best that I don’t go shirtless in the middle of nowhere—”</p>
  <p>Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s wrist and pulls it between them, nostrils flaring as he follows what must be the smell of blood. Jaskier holds his chin up with a sigh, waiting for Geralt to tear his shirt open and examine whatever future scar is waiting there. Now that he’s been forced to focus on it, it really does hurt and it may be for the best to have Geralt’s expert eyes on it. It’ll take the doublet from vaguely mistreated to thoroughly ruined but if Geralt figures it’s best, then Jaskier will try not to complain too much. </p>
  <p>But Geralt’s hands don’t reach for his collar or the buttons. They roll up his right sleeve instead. </p>
  <p>“The worst cut is here,” Geralt says.</p>
  <p>This… makes little sense to Jaskier.</p>
  <p>“Geralt?” He asks. Geralt uses a strange amount of caution in rolling the fabric, careful not to further tear it or dip it into the blood Jaskier can now see pooling steadily in the cut reaching from the back of his wrist to halfway towards his elbow. It’s deep— not enough to risk his life but certainly enough to bring worry of infection.</p>
  <p>More than enough to be the most painful thing on his body. Then, why…</p>
  <p>Jaskier’s other hand grips his trousers as Geralt twists his arm this way and that, making small noises at what he sees. The night is warm— almost humid, the air sticking to the back of Jaskier’s neck like a sloppy kiss— but his body chills anyway, small pinpricks rising across his arms and trailing down his spine as he sucks in a soft breath. </p>
  <p>It’s quiet as a dream, only the shifting of Jaskier’s weight pressing down on twigs as he waits for Geralt to finish his inspection. And Geralt takes his time, wiping blood from the back of Jaskier’s hand before sighing and tearing the sleeve clean off.</p>
  <p>“Oi!” Jaskier says because it’s easier to focus on a ruined doublet then on the way he can barely feel the sting of his arm over the burn on his chest. </p>
  <p>“I’ll buy you another,” Geralt says and he almost sounds like he means it as he wraps the sleeve around the wound. “I just figured you’d prefer to lose a sleeve than an arm.”</p>
  <p>Jaskier huffs out a breath. “Fair enough, I suppose.”</p>
  <p>The sound Geralt makes can almost be a laugh.</p>
  <p>“We can clean our wounds at the camp,” Geralt says, stepping back. As he moves away, something lifts from Jaskier’s chest, something that had been sitting on his lungs and making it harder to breathe. He sucks in a greedy breath, Geralt frowning at the gasping sound. “It seems you live to see another day, bard.”</p>
  <p>“You’re the one always doubting my survival skills,” Jaskier says, though it lacks the full weight of the teasing tone he typically puts on. “I know you’d never let me die.”</p>
  <p>“Hm.”</p>
  <p>Geralt turns and walks away, nodding his head for Jaskier to follow— as if Jaskier ever needs instruction to do so. </p>
  <p>Still, it’s one of the few times he doesn’t skip ahead of Geralt with a joking grin, with smiling words and the first verse of a song on his lips. Instead, he trails ever so slightly behind; instead, he falls into the questions circling his thoughts.</p>
  <p>The night is warm and Jaskier’s still cold.</p>
  <p>Neither of these things explains the fire trailing across his chest.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Once, when Jaskier was younger and just learning how fun stupid things can be, he’d followed some boys up a hill just outside of town. It had rained the night before and the scent of the storm was still thick in the air, mingling with the laughter and jokes on their tongues. The hill was known for being a place of play for children but, that day, it presented even more temptation than mere running up and down it.</p>
  <p>Mud streaked the side of the hill that morning, wet and damp and oozing with worms. And, one by one, the boys took their turns sliding down the mud— flat on their stomachs, hands outstretched, chins bumped and irritated by the rocks in the way.</p>
  <p>Jaskier only made it down twice, even though the others kept going for at least another half hour. He’d thrown a fit and pretended it was because of the tears in his shirt— that he didn’t know it’d rip the fabric so easily, that his mother would kill him when she found out. He’d been called stuck up and accused of acting like a little girl but it was better than admitting that the tears stinging his eyes were because of the terrible red rash stretching across his chest. Fine fabrics, after all, did so little to protect his skin when sliding down dirty hills at a speed that felt much more like falling. There were no cuts— nothing to prove the pain was there other than the bright red mark and the hiss sucked through Jaskier’s breath when his mother pressed a cool rag to it that night.</p>
  <p>As Jaskier settles across from Geralt at their small campfire, he tries to breathe easily and convince himself that the pain he feels now is the same that he felt then— it’s just irritated skin, just a bruise from rolling around beneath a monster. It’s too dark to prove his theory, he finds as he strips his shirt off to check, but it’s the only one he has.</p>
  <p>Or, well. It’s the only theory he’s willing to entertain. </p>
  <p>While Geralt cleans his sword, Jaskier reaches for the remains of his doublet— a tragedy he will not think about any more than he needs— and wets it with what’s left in his waterskin. He’d filled it earlier in the day when they’d passed a stream, cleaner than they’d seen in days, and, after thanking Melitele for small mercies, he’d announced Geralt would be glad of the break when Jaskier’s cleaning guts off him later.</p>
  <p>So, it’s with a small ironic smile that Jaskier places the rag to his own chest, hoping to cool the heat there, careful not to let his fingers touch the place where his clock rests.</p>
  <p>“Are you sure you don’t want me to stitch that cut for you?” He asks, nodding towards Geralt’s shoulder. “I know you have your potions and Witchery healing ways but it couldn’t hurt to be safe about this.”</p>
  <p>“Focus on your own injuries,” Geralt grunts. “I’ll be fine.”</p>
  <p>Jaskier huffs. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you will be. Gods forbid Geralt of Rivia ever admits he needs help. And my own wounds are fine, thank you very much. Honestly, the man catches one whiff of pain and thinks I’m dying. Do I really seem that frail to you?”</p>
  <p>Geralt’s lips twitch ever so slightly. Jaskier refrains from tossing the waterskin at him. He’d probably catch it and throw it back twice as hard, anyway.</p>
  <p>Jaskier leans back a bit, sighing and squeezing the rag against his chest, hoping the water will finally put the fire out. Gods, it stings. Was it really this bad when he was younger?</p>
  <p>“You know, I’d probably heal quicker if we were somewhere with a bath and an actual bed,” he says, adding an extra touch of wistfulness into his voice. </p>
  <p>“You’d be more likely to make your own pain worse,” Geralt responds without looking up, “by sneaking around with some poor man’s wife and tempting someone else to kill you.”</p>
  <p>Jaskier grins, dropping the rag when it grows warm in his hand. “Well. At least it’d be fun.”</p>
  <p>“Fun for you.” Geralt looks up and whatever smile had begun drops just as fast. “Are you…”</p>
  <p>Jaskier’s eyebrows come together. “Am I what?”</p>
  <p>Geralt stares for a moment longer before shaking his head and looking back to his sword.</p>
  <p>“It was just the fire,” he says. “The shadows made it look like something was moving on your chest.”</p>
  <p>“Oh.” Jaskier’s hand flies back towards his chest, stopping just before the skin— not touching his clock-heart, yet, but enough to feel the warmth of his own skin against his fingertips. “Yes, well. Isn’t it funny the things fire can do?”</p>
  <p>“It burns,” Geralt says, straightforward as ever. </p>
  <p>Jaskier’s smile is shaky but it’s the only response he has, nevermind the fact Geralt’s looking away.</p>
  <p>Perhaps it wasn’t a rash or burn that had stuck to his skin. Perhaps it was never a wound, at all.</p>
  <p>Perhaps he blocked out every possibility that it could be anything else, that he chose to remember a normal memory— a memory of a boy scolded by his mother, laughing with friends, a boy with a heart meant for fun and games and not—</p>
  <p>But the memories in his head now are just words he’s recited since he was young. Never touch your heart. Never lose your temper. Never fall in love or else your heart will tick too fast, it won’t understand, it will hurt you and you will die and—</p>
  <p>“Yes,” he says, his voice only slightly strong enough to reach Geralt’s ears. “Fire burns.”</p>
  <p>He stands before Geralt can look up, can shoot him one of those pretending-not-to-be-concerned glances. He digs through his bags for another shirt, for his bedroll, for an excuse to turn away.</p>
  <p>But the ticking of his clock goes on, faster than it ever had before. </p>
  <p>A fire burning, just like Geralt said.</p>
  <p>And it’s fair that Geralt said it, Jaskier thinks.</p>
  <p>Because he knows it’s Geralt who’s inspired his heart to move.</p>
  <p>Alongside his childhood memories, a new one appears— newer, stronger, closer.</p>
  <p>Geralt’s face. Geralt’s words.</p>
  <p>
    <em> “It burns.” </em>
  </p>
  <p><em> “Yes,” </em> Jaskier thinks to himself, watching the way his clock hands spin-- more than a countdown, more than a threat. <em> “This does.” </em></p>
  <p>And the fire from before spreads across his body, beginning to consume him whole.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you've reached the end of this thing, then I hope you enjoyed it! It's shorter than I might have liked and I'm crossing my fingers in hopes that it's not as confusing as I fear it might be. I promise Jaskier isn't dying right now. He still has some story left.</p><p>Also, uh, I wrote the first scene while drunk at, like, 4am. That excuse won't work for the rest of it but, well, let's blame all issues in the first part on my poor lifestyle choices.</p><p>As always, thank you so much for reading!! Please comment and subscribe to the series if you've enjoyed it, and I'll see you next time!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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